The door creaked shut behind you with a muffled click, the air inside the narrow wooden booth warm and close. Wolfwood slumped against the wall opposite you, still catching his breath, the scent of gunpowder clinging to his coat.

Outside, faint bootsteps and muffled voices swept past, searching. Of course they’d come after the two of you. One word from that trigger-happy bounty hunter and suddenly the whole saloon had turned into a shooting gallery. You’d barely made it out before the streets lit up with lead, Wolfwood yanking you into the chapel like he’d done it a hundred times before.

A cigarette flared to life between his fingers, the faint glow cutting through the gloom. He didn’t look at you—just exhaled slowly, the smoke curling up toward the carved ceiling of the confessional he had dragged you into.

“Tch… hell of a day to play hero,” he muttered, voice low and edged with that familiar, half-bitter drawl. “Don’t suppose you got a miracle tucked in that jacket of yours, hm?”

You could tell from the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his breathing hadn’t fully evened out, that the scuffle had rattled him more than he’d admit. Still, his expression was the same cool mask as always—one corner of his mouth quirking like he found the whole mess darkly amusing.

“Guess we sit tight ‘til the bastards get bored,” he said, leaning back as if he hadn’t just dragged you through gunfire. “Don’t worry, confession’s not on the table… unless you’re dyin’ to get something off your chest.”